I was somewhere in the eighth grade. I was far from a student and far from someone with a good sense of comprehension.
I hated reading. I hated the books and the material. I hated homework even more, which is why I never seemed to do mine or any other schoolwork, for that matter.
English was never a strong subject for me. Then again, none of my subjects were either strong or interesting to me.
I hated school
It must have been closer to the end of the year. This was the first time I ever heard anyone read Hamlet or Shakespeare.
My English teacher was older. She was tough and she was not someone who I would look at and find attractive.
Until . . .
I heard her reading Hamlet Act 5, Scene 1 –
“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him.”
This was Hamlet talking to Horatio at the grave of Yorick.
Yorick was Hamlet’s father’s court jester.
And I can’t say that I remember the entire scene or the line, and I will not lie and say that I knew this all from memory.
No.
That would be dishonest.
I had to look this up and fact check myself a little.
However, I remember the expression on my teacher’s face and how she read the words.
I remember that this somehow made her seem less intense or angry.
Something beautiful happened and for the first time, I actually paid attention in class.
I think my teacher noticed. I think this began a new change in our relationship, which is not to say that I straightened out or became a great student..
No, I was equally as red-eyed and high in all of my classes, including English.
I was less disruptive, perhaps.
I listened more.
And I was more respectful to my teacher.
And do you know what else?
She was kinder to me.
I suppose my teacher was kinder because I was the only one brave enough to ask questions about poetry or Hamlet.
I was the only one in class who dug deeper about the work of Shakespeare.
Maybe she saw a change in me.
Or maybe she saw something that no one else could see, and the fact is (or was) that I was never stupid to begin with.
I only thought I was.
I was uninterested to say the least.
I was bored with school.
I was bored with the unfriendly and unhappy teachers who should have never become teachers to begin with.
I hated the bullshit and back and forth struggles in the hallways or in the lunchrooms or in the courtyards, which by the way, we learn more about life and how games are played here than we do in places like Mr. Syden’s Earth Science class.
I understand the need for school and the need for math—however, and at the same time, I can’t say that math theories and how conjugating a verb has landed me my position as an operating engineer or pushed me to a leadership role.
But I get it . . .
Socialization is important too.
These lessons go overlooked, all too often.
These are the lessons from our days outside the classroom and these are the lessons that we use far more than finding the value of X.
I never told people about my love for poetry.
I never believed that I would be able to write things that were beautiful, let alone, that I could write something interesting and let someone read it . . .
I was asked if I could teach teachers anything, what would I want to teach them the most?
I had to think about this.
Of course, there are the obvious ideas like never expose the student with social anxiety to read out loud when he stutters and the class laughs.
Never humiliate your students, —but at the same time, not all students are going to sit willingly or behave accordingly.
I don’t know if my English teacher knows what she did.
And I don’t believe she knows how much of an impact she had on my life. I certainly do not believe that she knew how lifesaving she was to me.
No one knows this (until now)
No. I suppose my English teacher has no clue about these things. I suppose she never knew (the same as no one ever knew) that I used to sneak into the auditorium and hide in a cabinet on the school’s stage.
I’d sneak behind the curtain that was drawn and I used to sit in the dark for hours, perhaps entertained by the visuals and the stunning hallucinations that came with the effects of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide or mescaline.
These things were both an equal partner in helping me with what led up to my first expulsion.
I do believe in the mixture of chemistry. However, my belief and understanding of chemistry is something that came with experience. And no, none of this was learned or understood in a classroom.
We are as we think.
I cannot be better than what I believe or feel better than I think.
This is my chemistry.
So then?
If this is what creates my moods or my compulsions, then how can I be reached?
Or even better, how can I believe that I am capable when all I believed taught me that I was otherwise and thus, how do you improve someone’s understanding when they firmly believe that they are incapable of everything?
My English teacher reached me because she found something that I was interested in, —and she created a bond. She told me what her life was like when she was an editor.
The funny part is I used to drive my teachers crazy.
The same thing can be said about my editors . . .
Put simply, my English teacher changed the chemistry of our relationship, which made me want to do better in her class.
And do you want to know something?
I failed every other class, —except for her class, that is.
I think there is something to be said about that.
I get to speak to a classroom of students this week.
I think this is a good place for me to start.
no?
The Written Addiction 